Thursday, January 02, 2003
Copyright © Las Vegas Mercury

Goldberg: Resolved

By Tod Goldberg

Every year around this time I try to take stock of my life and make important decisions regarding all that is Tod. I don't like to call these decisions New Year's resolutions simply because I don't ever really resolve anything and also because my birthday falls on the 10th and thus what would be a resolution merely becomes another looming piece of evidence that my pre-midlife crisis is in full effect. I've never kept a diary or journal of these decisions, deciding it easier to keep these ideas percolating in my crowded little mind and, legally speaking, less actionable than if I commit them to paper. But seeing as this is now the year 2003 and I'm on the precipice of my 32nd birthday, I figured what the shizzle.

1. I resolve to stop stalking Rick Springfield (at least in this column). Over the last two years, I have begged, pleaded and even crafted an open letter to Mr. Springfield asking for him to reciprocate my abject devotion to him. And what has it gotten me? Well, there's a website called Ricktopia.com that did an interview with me, there was the woman who showed up at one of my book signings and had me sign her copy of Rick Springfield's last album and, of course, there are the odd stares I get in the Mercury lunchroom from the cool cats in the CD review department who wonder just what the hell is wrong with me. So, from here on out, it's over, Rick. You had your chance. I have now turned my passions and fandom toward the glowing sun that is Las Vegas resident John Waite. I ain't missing you.

2. I resolve to stop searching for myself on Google. I know I exist. I know I have written three books (including two good ones). I know that I have my own website. I know other people have websites that mention me. I know there are some people who don't like me. I know there are some people who have unhealthy attractions to me. I know all this and much, much more (including, though not limited to, the fact that in college I once kind of dated a girl who slept with Gil Gerrard). So, why do I search for myself on Google? Why do I waste time validating what I already know? Vanity thy name is Google, Shakespeare would say, so I'm putting the kibosh on my own personal quest (though I understand Alltheweb.com is a pretty good search engine, too).

3. I resolve to throw out all my cassette tapes. In my closet rests a rather sporty-looking wicker shelving unit that holds my 500 cassette tapes. Of those 500 tapes, I have listened to a grand total of three in the past year (Thelonious Monster's Stormy Weather, The Replacements' Tim and The Stone Roses' first album). I know this because all three are still sitting atop my stereo and my wife keeps threatening to throw them out. A quick sampling of the other 497 titles pulled up these gems:

Thinkman: A band that I think I liked for one day in 1987.

Belouis Some: Best known for a Swatch ad in 1987 and for a song called, uh, well, I can't quite remember.

The Pursuit of Happiness: Canadians. I think. Or maybe that was Platinum Blonde.

Liquid Jesus: Were going to be the next Jane's Addiction, except not quite as good. I have three of their tapes, all still sealed. May have stolen them from the Wherehouse.

The Fluid: From Seattle circa all those other bands from Seattle. Tape smells vaguely like flannel.

Ready for the World: Two words say it all: Oh, Sheila!

The Soundtrack from Pump Up the Volume: For a time, Christian Slater was the coolest man alive. That time has passed.

With the advent of free music courtesy of the Internet, I could conceivably download all of these albums, or at least the one cut from each that I actually liked, and completely eliminate the need for one more sporty wicker item in my life. (Though it will take some convincing for me to believe that my limited-edition Blow Monkeys EP cassette won't be worth some serious cream on eBay.)

4. I resolve to limit the amount of energy I spend screaming at people on the TV. I'm one of those people with a limited amount of athletic ability who watches a lot of sports and thus feels like he knows substantially more about the intricacies of any given game than the people actually playing the game. For instance, last weekend I actually began yelling at Oakland Raiders defensive back Clarence Love because of a lapse of judgment he made on a particular third-down play. I questioned his manhood, his mother's sexual fetishes and commented at least once that I could have made said play. Then it occurred to me that if someone put me on a playing field and ordered me to cover Shannon Sharpe, in all likelihood I'd wet my pants, declare my devotion to pacifism and then go about the world spreading the word of Ghandi.

I'm also one of those people who feels he could write all TV shows and movies better than the people already employed to do so. (Of course, there is some credence to this claim, seeing as I am a rising young literary star and all.) So when I sat dumbfounded watching an episode of "Fastlane" recently I couldn't help but scream, "I could write this crap! Jesus! Why don't I give up this quest for literary fiefdom and just write dialogue for Bill Bellamy all day! Jesus!" It struck me then that if I could write dialogue for Bill Bellamy, I'd deserve to be paid handsomely.

5. I resolve to stop watching the same bad movies over and over again on cable. Somewhere along the developmental process I believe a key neuron exploded. This neuron controls the animal impulse to watch notably awful movies whenever they appear on digital cable at 2 a.m. Because I am without this device I constantly find myself up late at night watching Event Horizon (Sam Neill claws his eyes out, which is a bonus), Point Break (Keanu makes me think I could get $20 million a film), Sideout (C. Thomas Howell's finest hour), The Cutting Edge (everyone loves a feel-good Olympics movie about an ex-hockey star who gets the gold in ice skating), Hope Floats (Sandra Bullock is downright inspiring as a single mom making it on her own terms), Bring It On (BRRRRR, it's cold in here) and anything starring Michael Douglas that isn't Romancing the Stone. Of those movies, I can honestly say I don't particularly care for any of them, nor do I think any of them is of any real artistic merit (though Sandra Bullock does look pretty good in a cowboy hat), so why do I keep watching? Because I'm a functioning idiot, that's why. From here on out, it's Schindler's List or nothing.